Page 7 of For Fox Sake

I chuckle.

She had dirt on her clothes and violet smudges under her eyes. But her eyes were bright and intelligent, and she had this almost glow about her that?—

Holy hell, I sound like a damn teen drama.

I blame my sisters for forcing me into hours and hours of Grey’s Anatomy and Vampire Diaries, which I absolutely did not enjoy even though technically I could have left the room at any time.

Anyway. It doesn’t matter because I’m only here temporarily and I have more important things to focus on.

I walk over to the desk in the corner where the informational booklet on the rental is propped open. I run a finger down the page until it lands on the name and contact info for the property manager, the person I’ve been stalking for over a year now, and the reason I left my hometown of Whitby, New York, to spend time in Dull, Oregon.

Ryan Green.

My cell phone rings and I groan. I’ve been avoiding most of my calls, mostly from my sister Finley and her fiancé Archer, but I can’t avoid this one.

If I don’t answer, he’ll come after me.

In reality, he’ll pay other people to come after me. Lots of people. As many as it takes. He has the resources and connections to send in the CIA, probably.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax and answer. “Hey, Oliver.”

“You need to call Finley.”

Getting right to the point, as usual, his voice snapping like a disgruntled turtle. It’s cute. He’s worried about me.

I tread down the short hallway to the bedroom, using the time to pause for a few long seconds, just to be annoying. “I’m doing great, thanks for asking. How are you?”

“I didn’t invest that money for you to take off without a word to your sisters.”

“I left word.”

Nine words, to be precise. On a sticky note I pressed to the fridge as I was walking out the door.

Went to look for letter writer. I’ll be back.

It was succinct. To the point. Poetic, even. Maybe a Haiku. I scratch my head. How many syllables are needed for a Haiku?

“I never should have told you about the money.”

“Uh, pretty sure it would have been illegal not to, my bro.”

Oliver practically growls. He’s probably strangling his cell phone at this point.

I grin at the thought and pick up my bag from the floor, setting it on the pale green bedspread and rummaging for sleep clothes.

Over a year ago, I began sending Oliver a large chunk of my paychecks to invest for me. Out of nowhere, he called me last month to tell me he’d quadrupled my investment—and it continues to grow. He’s got a golden thumb. He’s good at everything. He never loses, ever. He wins every competition I can think of, from fishing to axe throwing to goddamn cross-stitching. It doesn’t matter what it is. The man is like a medical marvel. It’s annoying. But also convenient for me, since I needed the money to spend a couple of weeks investigating. So I can’t be too petty. At least, not outwardly.

“I am not your bro,” he huffs.

“You will be soon enough.”

He’s more or less my brother-in-law because even if he hasn’t married Piper yet, it’s only a matter of time.

Where are my pajama pants? My fingers wrap around something silky, and I tug it loose from the jumble of clothes in my bag.

I lift it up. It’s a black V-neck tee that is at least three sizes too small. And a crop top. And there’s a rhinestone raccoon bedazzled on the front with the words Trash Panda glittering across the chest.

This is Finley’s shirt.

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